Prodigy Read Free Page A

screens:
    REPUBLIC TRIUMPHANTLY TAKES OVER MILES OF COLONIES’ LAND IN BATTLE FOR AMARILLO, EAST
     TEXAS
    FLOOD WARNING CANCELLED FOR SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
    ELECTOR VISITS TROOPS ON NORTHERN WARFRONT, BOOSTS MORALE
    Most of them are fairly uninteresting—the usual headlines coming in from the warfront,
     updates on weather and laws, quarantine notices for Vegas.
    Then Day taps my shoulder and gestures at one of the screens.
    QUARANTINE IN LOS ANGELES EXTENDED TO EMERALD, OPAL SECTORS
    “Gem sectors?” Day whispers. My eyes are still fixed on the screen, even though the
     headline has passed. “Don’t rich folks live there?”
    I’m not sure what to say in return because I’m still trying to process the information
     myself. Emerald and Opal sectors . . . Is this a mistake? Or have the plagues in LA
     gotten serious enough to be broadcast on
Vegas
JumboTrons? I’ve never,
ever

seen quarantines extended into the upper-class sectors. Emerald sector borders Ruby—does
     that mean my home sector is going to be quarantined too? What about our vaccinations?
     Aren’t they supposed to prevent things like this? I think back on Metias’s journal
     entries.
One of these days,
he’d said,
there will be a virus unleashed that none of us will be able to stop.
I remember the things Metias had unveiled, the underground factories, the rampant
     diseases . . . the systematic plagues. A shiver runs through me. Los Angeles will
     quell it, I tell myself. The plague will die down, just like it always does.
    More headlines sweep by. A familiar one is about Day’s execution. It plays the clip
     of the firing squad yard where Day’s brother John took the bullets meant for Day,
     then fell facedown on the ground. Day turns his eyes to the pavement.
    Another headline is newer. It says this:
     
    MISSING
    SS NO: 2001963034
    ------------------------
    JUNE IPARIS
    AGENT, LOS ANGELES CITY PATROL
    AGE/GENDER: 15, FEMALE
    HEIGHT: 5’4”
    HAIR: BROWN
    EYES: BROWN
    LAST SEEN NEAR BATALLA HALL, LOS ANGELES, CA
    350,000 REPUBLIC NOTES REWARD
    IF SEEN, REPORT IMMEDIATELY TO YOUR LOCAL OFFICIAL
     
    That’s what the Republic wants their people to think. That I’m missing, that they
     hope to bring me back safe and sound. What they
don’t
say is that they probably want me dead. I helped the country’s most notorious criminal
     escape his execution, aided the rebel Patriots in a staged uprising against a military
     headquarters, and turned my back on the Republic.
    But they wouldn’t want that information going public, so they hunt for me quietly.
     The missing report shows the photo from my military ID—a face-forward, unsmiling shot
     of me, barefaced but for a touch of gloss, dark hair tied back in a high ponytail,
     a gold Republic seal gleaming against the black of my coat. I’m grateful that the
     phoenix tattoo hides half of my face right now.
    We make it to the middle of the main strip before the speakers crackle again for the
     pledge. Day and I stop walking. Day stumbles again and almost falls, but I manage
     to catch him fast enough to keep him upright. People on the street look up to the
     JumboTrons (except for a handful of soldiers who line the edges of each intersection
     in order to ensure everyone’s participation). The screens flicker. Their images vanish
     into blackness, and are then replaced by high-definition portraits of the Elector
     Primo.
    I pledge allegiance—
    It’s almost comforting to repeat these words with everyone else on the streets, at
     least until I remind myself of all that’s changed. I think back to the evening when
     I’d first captured Day, when the Elector and his son came to personally congratulate
     me for putting a notorious criminal behind bars. I recall how the Elector had looked
     in person. The portraits on the JumboTrons show the same green eyes, strong jaw, and
     curled locks of dark hair . . . but they leave out the coldness in his expression
     and the sickly color of his